


Mementos & Memories

by NadiaHart



Category: Supernatural
Genre: A little, Adorable Castiel (Supernatural), Adorable Dean Winchester, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Awkward Dates, Cannon Divergent, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, Castiel Whump, Everyone Is Alive, Fallen Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Fan Art, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Happy Ending, Human Castiel, Hunter Castiel, Hunter Dean Winchester, Hunter Sam Winchester, Hunters & Hunting, Hurt/Comfort, LGBTQ Themes, Light Angst, M/M, POV Castiel, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Photographer Castiel, Photography, Pride, Reverse Bang, Sam Winchester Ships Castiel/Dean Winchester, Shipper Sam, The Impala - Freeform, Time Stamp Fic, Topping from the Bottom, brothers being brothers, gratuitous references to taking photos, like once, mostly - Freeform, sorta - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-13
Updated: 2018-06-13
Packaged: 2019-05-21 19:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14921664
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NadiaHart/pseuds/NadiaHart
Summary: There is a distance between memory and reality and it doesn’t always look as you’d expect it to. Sometimes it’s a tangible thing, a long stretch of deserted back roads. Pavement, patched and faded from years of weather and wear. Sometimes, it doesn’t have a look at all, but a sound. The whirr and buzz of an old Polaroid camera printing a photo.There is a distance between then and now. Sometimes the distance is small, just the space of an exhale. Sometimes it’s fathomless, like the fall from heaven to earth.Castiel is a man making his way across the chasm between divinity and humanity. A distance between who he was, and who he is now. Along the way he learns about himself, the family he finds, the memories he makes, and all of the moments he manages to capture in-between.or a canon-divergent, case-fic about whatshouldhave happened after Castiel fell, the happy ending he and Dean really deserved.





	Mementos & Memories

**Author's Note:**

> This is my entry for the **2018 DeanCas ReverseBang** I had the pleasure of working with [@Cryptomoon](https://space-wolf.com/) who challenged me to write something Canon Divergent which is not normally my specialty. It was both challenging and exciting, and Crypto said that I 'nailed it' I hope you all agree. Crypto was such a joy to work with and was my constant cheerleader through the whole process.
> 
> Many, many, many thanks to [@harplessCastiel](http://harplesscastiel.tumblr.com/) who betaed this fic for me and is always, the most helpful.
> 
> Lots and lots of love for the [ProfoundBond Discord Server.](https://discord.gg/yFUrjcp) and all the members there who keep me motivated and writing. **I'd be lost without you guys.** Thank you to all the wonderful, hard-working Mods for the 2018RB  <3 
> 
> Here is the[ Art Master Post](https://space-wolf.com/post/174859441857/my-art-for-deancasreversebang-2018)
> 
> Now, **Say Cheese!** and lets get this story started. _*click*_

  


* * *

 

“Nooooope,” Sam stiffens and turns on a dime, heading back to the Impala.  

“Sam, what the hell?” Dean sighs, tossing his duffel bag back into the trunk with more force than is probably necessary. “I just want a fucking shower, man!”

To be fair, Dean is covered in some sort of slowly dripping green goop, his shirt plastered to his chest and the flannel he’s wearing is more or less in ribbons down his back. He’s pulled off the highway into the first town they found, then into the first parking lot of the first motel he saw from the road. It’s a severely run down little dive called The BigTop. Castiel is halfway out of the back seat when his eyes snap to what has caused Sam’s sudden one-eighty and Dean’s outburst.

Behind the dingy reception desk, standing under a flickering yellowed bulb is a seven and a half foot tall statue of a clown. It’s in disrepair. Its already creepy face–the paint half chipped off like at some point someone had tried to move it and instead dropped it on its head, cracking the veneer–is mangled and sinister looking, to say the least. The flickering light casts slithering shadows across its hollow eyes and eerily parted half curled mouth, make it seem like it's snarling. Like it’s peering directly into your soul and just waiting to suck it right out of your mouth.

Castiel shivers at the sight of it, and the longer he stares at the statue, the more uneasy he feels. He can understand Sam’s hesitancy. The half balding man hunched behind the reception desk, on the other hand, is more interested in the battered paperback in his hands than realizing the imminent threat of that statue looming over his shoulder obviously poses, as Sam Winchester clearly does.

The passenger side door slams closed as Sam slides resolutely back into his spot. Sam’s made his decision; they won't be staying here tonight. Castiel glances around at the bleak motel with its faded circus theme and spots at least two more equally forlorn statues scattered around the property.  He’s more than pleased to slip back inside the Impala, grimacing as Dean catches his eye and silently implores him to take his side. When Castiel shrugs, Dean slams the trunk and stomps around the Impala, grumbling as he slips back behind the wheel.

“This shit fucking itches.” He complains as he throws the car into reverse. Sam’s shoulders visibly relax as they back out of the parking lot and onto the freeway. “If I get a rash…” Dean grumbles as Sam flicks on the radio. Castiel watches the interaction fondly, fatigue makes him weary, his head tipping to lean against the window.

The streetlights pass wetly over the Impala as Dean drives through the night, the sound of his voice singing along to the radio and the rumble of the car pulling at Castiel’s mind until he’s drifting. Now that Castiel’s fallen and the last remaining vestiges of his grace are fading to nothing, sleep is something he is learning to treasure.

There are lots of things, in fact, that he’s learning to treasure. Hot coffee in the morning, peanut butter and jelly on white bread before bed, buttered rye toast and runny eggs, cheeseburgers with bacon, pie––and cake, but he keeps that to himself. Sheets fresh out of the dryer, the smell of old books... orgasms. He hums a sigh rolling his forehead against the cold glass of the back window. He’s _really_ learning to treasure orgasms. The heat, the rush, the sudden euphoric rise, and crash. He especially enjoys them in a nice hot shower or tucked between the sheets of his bed in the bunker, right before he falls asleep at night. There’s nothing like that loose-limbed feeling to pull him into a dreamless slumber. Dreamless nights are few and far in between, now that the nightmares of his past chase him whenever his mind starts to wander.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” Dean rumbles, mirth in his tone. Castiel lurches as Dean yanks the door he’s leaning against open, his body sliding towards the ground before he can stop it. Dean's there, though, hand on Castiel's shoulder to keep him from tumbling to the cracked pavement.

“What are you doing?” Castiel asks, voice deep like thunder until he clears his throat. “Why would you do that?”

Dean smirks. “Found a place the princess deems acceptable.”

“Shove it, Dean” Sam’s voice calls from somewhere by the trunk.

Castiel nods and licks his lips, accepting Dean’s hand when he extends it to help Castiel out of the back seat. He takes a moment to stretch, flexing his fingers and arching his back until it pops and he sags back in on himself with a sigh. “Where are we?”

Dean tosses him his duffle. “‘Bout four hours outside of Tulsa.”

“You drove all night?” Castiel’s brows rise. “Why?”

They are standing in the parking lot of another motel. It’s always another motel, and if it’s not, its the backseat of the Impala. Now that there are three of them, that's not an option anymore, so they stick to motels. This motel appears, at least, to be without a theme, though it’s many decades out of date, which isn’t unusual for them.

Dean shrugs in response to Castiel’s question, the: ‘cause it’s what they do, they’re hunters', goes unsaid. They move around the country, drive all night, face one close call after another until the call is too close and they end up another John Doe in the paper mauled by a mountain lion or eaten by a bear. No one believes that werewolves or wendigos are real, anyway.

Castiel falls into step with Sam as the trio approach the reception desk. His eyes stray to the bulletin board as Dean flirts with the middle-aged woman behind the counter.

“What is a... swap... meet… ?” Castiel asks, his eyes drawn to a little orange flyer.

Sam slides up next to him and reads over the advert. “Huh. It's kind of like a yard sale, or... um...”  he’s obviously struggling, his eyebrows furrowed, lips pinched. Castiel patiently waits for Sam to find a suitable analogy to make him understand.

“You know what? Why don’t we go check it out? I can take you down; it's a good place to pick up some cheap supplies. We could all use some new shirts…” He spares a glance at Dean, who obviously cleaned up a bit during the drive last night but still has dark green stains along the back of his jeans and behind his ears. “It will be a good experience.”

That is something Sam’s been saying a lot recently. _It will be a good experience_ . Since Castiel fell, since he became the hollow shell of what he once was, Sam has been trying to fill the void with distraction. Dean, on the other hand, seems resolutely determined to ignore the fact that Castiel is different now. Though Dean always seems to be close by, hovering on the edges of Castiel's awareness. It would be endearing if it weren’t so annoying like he’s just waiting for Castiel to fuck up… _again_. Not that Castiel could blame him really, he’s been fucking up pretty badly for a long time now.

“Hey,” Sam says softly, his face morphing in concern. “We don’t have to go…”

Sometimes Castiel forgets that his face shows more emotion now that he's human. That whatever he’s thinking no longer has the buffer of his grace to soften it before it’s written into his expression. Now they are one and the same.

“I’m not going,” Dean says before Castiel can respond. He pushes the spare room key and the keys to the Impala into Sam’s chest. “You two lovebirds can do whatever you want. All I want is a nice hot shower and my four fucking hours.”

“Dean…” Sam hisses scolding his brother for what Castiel assumes is Dean’s apparent lack of concern for his feelings. He can’t help but roll his eyes. He might be (mostly) human now, but that doesn’t mean he needs Sam acting like he’s going to break from getting his feelings hurt. He’s not fucking fragile. Well, maybe his body is fragile now, but Dean’s ordinarily crass attitude is something he’s used to. It’s a constant, and sometimes it even makes him feel like he’s still his old useful self.

“Fine,” Castiel says, handing his bag off to Dean, who takes it without complaint.

“Bring back food.” Dean calls over his shoulder as he juggles the bags, “... and pie!”

* * *

 

* * *

 

It turns out that Cas loves the swap meet. He points at random everyday objects with a contained sort of speculative wonder. He spends over twenty minutes at a table full of snow globes and old tea sets. Once Sam’s able to drag Cas away from examining a blender made in the sixties he manages to get a few gently used Carharts from a hunter who’s arthritis is keeping him out of the cold. Sam encourages Cas to try on a pair of hiking boots, and they hit a gold mine at a table run by an elderly woman whose kids have long since moved away. Apparently, her sons went through a ‘hipster phase’ because they find a bunch of henleys, flannels, and a few pairs of jeans in both Dean and Cas size. Cas nabs a pair of running sneakers and Sam spends a few minutes looking through a stack of old musty books.

“Oh my, yes.” The elder woman says with a smile. “Jimmy loved that silly thing.”

Sam’s looks around in time to see Cas’s head snap up. “Jimmy?”

“Mmm, my son,” the woman hums softly, shuffling over to where Cas is standing. “It's an instant camera. A Polaroid.” Gently she takes the gray and black box from Cas’ hands and shows him how to use it, the rainbow neck strap hanging limply from its hinges. “Have you not seen one of these, deary?”

“No…” Cas replies, his voice a deep rumble that Sam recognizes by this point as him feeling emotional. Sam knows he’ll be getting Jimmy’s camera for Cas. Selecting one of the books from her table at random, Sam moves to stand next to Cas.

“Here, smile!” The woman says, lifting the camera to her eye and snapping a photo. The old device whirrs and whines as it prints. She deftly plucks the picture from the mouth of the camera and gives it a little shake. Cas takes the photo with both hands when she offers it over to him, his mouth parting in wonder as the image develops before his eyes. And like a child, his head snaps up to Sam’s, eyes shining with the silent question.

“How much?” Sam asks with a small indulgent smile as Cas’ head swings back to the old woman. Sam knows Cas is giving her the puppy dog look he’s been accidentally perfecting on Dean since he fell. The old woman smiles at Cas, the lines around her eyes deepening.

“You know what. Ten dollars and I’ll throw in the box of film I’ve got around here somewhere.” She shuffles off, shifting around a few boxes until she comes back with a small retro style suitcase, it’s got all sorts of stickers across the top and the name Jimmy in faded black print along the bottom right corner. “I hate to see it go, but I think…” she slides the case across the folding table “it’s going to a good home.”

“Indeed” Cas agrees, and he shares one of his rare gummy smiles with the elderly woman. Even Sam feels the warmth radiating from the fallen angel. _It’s the little things,_ he thinks, _the small experiences that make being human worth it_.

On the way back to the motel, packages in hand, Cas sits in the front seat the camera carefully draped around his neck by the rainbow striped strap and clicks open the buttons on the little suitcase. Even Sam is surprised at how well this mysterious Jimmy ket his things organized. The instruction book is in there, along with what appears to be two dozen unopened boxes of film and a small red photo album explicitly designed to hold Polaroids. Inside is a photo of the elderly woman looking much younger smiling up at the camera, a son on either side of her. They seem happy. Sam watches Cas trace his fingers over the image before returning it to the front slot of the photo album. He flips the page and adds the photo of he and Sam smiling in the old church parking lot among the piles of stuff at the swap meet.

Cas picks up the instruction book humming as he reads it all the way up to the motel door. Sam unlocks it, juggling the bags from the swap meet and sees Dean passed out on one of the two queen beds. “Shh,” he hushes over his shoulder, stepping into the room with Cas on his heels.

He’s setting down all the packages, sorting out things to wash when the absence of movement draws his attention. Cas is standing just a few paces from the door, frozen like a statue, his lips parted slightly, eyes wide and focused on Dean.

His brother is sleeping belly down on the bed in just a t-shirt and a faded pair of boxer briefs. It’s a sight Sam’s seen a lot in their life of motel hopping. It must still be fairly new for Cas though, because he slowly lifts the camera to his face, hesitates for the breadth of a heartbeat, and snaps a photo. The sound of the camera working is loud in the quiet room, and Dean flinches, his whole body reacting. His hand snaps out from under his pillow; a gun pointed directly at Cas. Sam watches the former angel shift back slightly the camera dropping from in front of his face.

“Sonnova… Cas, what the hell man!” Dean snaps dropping his head back onto the pillow with a low groan. He takes stock of the situation half of his face still pressed into the pillow, and his one-eyed gaze falls with accusation on Sam. “Why did you buy him a fucking camera, Sam,” he says, arching a brow.

Sam shrugs, a smile spreading across his lips “I dunno, but I feel like it’s going to be a good investment.”

Dean chucks the pillow at Sam’s head.

* * *

 

* * *

 

Dean’s rough shout echoes down the old mine shaft. The sound of scraping and a strangled yelp is quickly chased by muffled curses. Cas is running, heart pounding in his chest flare gun clutched in his right hand, flashlight in his left. The old Polaroid camera bounces against his chest, Sam sprinting along a few feet ahead of him.

They’ve been chasing a wendigo for three days now. It’s kidnapped four people so far, and they are determined to put an end to its feasting, hopefully before it takes a bite out of Dean.

Sam and Cas round the corner together, and both come to a skidding halt at the scene laid out before them. While they’ve been in this type of situation before, it's never been quite this comical, and now that they’ve found Dean the level of anxiety among them plummets. This will all be over shortly. They're more than prepared to deal with the wendigo, if not Dean’s embarrassment at his current predicament. Sam huffs out a laugh, and Cas immediately juggles his flashlight to lift the camera to his face.

“No! Cas, don’t you dare!” Dean shouts from where he’s dangling from the wendigos grip by his ankle, feet above the ground, upside down, shirt riding up to his armpits, the muscles of his abdomen clenching and relaxing as he struggles. Dean’s flare gun is tossed off to the side where he must have dropped it when the wendigo had snagged him. He’s falling slightly, kicking his free leg like it's going to do anything to break the monster's grip on his other ankle.

“Shoot it! Shoot it!” Dean shouts, gesturing wildly.

The cameras flash brilliantly lights up the side of the mineshaft for just a moment and that–not all of Dean’s shouting, not Sam and Cas’s sudden arrival, but the flash of the camera– is the thing that draws the wendigo out of its drive to incapacitate a squirming Dean. The whirring of the film printing is overshadowed by the creatures roar as it tosses Dean down and charges. Sam’s quick with the trigger though, and launches his flare, hitting his mark and lighting the wendigo up. Dean staggers to his feet scraping his flare gun up and falling into line next to Sam. He curses low and rough in his throat and shoots another flare into the hissing squirming remains of the creature.

The glow burns brightly for a moment, silhouetting the brothers in the golden warmth of firelight. Their shadows stretch long, flickering along the craggy walls, the sound of Cas’ camera going off is lost to the crackling flames.

They save three people that day. Not including Dean.

 

* * *

 

Hours later they’re sitting in a diner along route 72 in Illinois. Dean’s got his left leg kicked up across the booth, massaging the muscle just above his knee and muttering about wendigos and death grips. Next, to him, Sam is slumped back, his head rolling against the cushion, his eyelids half-mast, and he’s got dirt smeared across the bottom of his jaw. They all do, in fact. There's mud, and dust, and soot rubbed into their clothes and skin, and they smell like charred hair and woodsmoke. Castiel fights the urge to lay his hand over Dean’s abused ankle as the toe of the hunter's boot bumps against his hip again.

It wouldn’t do any good anyway. Cas can’t heal him, not anymore. Instead, he fans the photos he took tonight out on the table, his dirt-stained fingers gently prodding the Polaroids into a straight line along the edge of the Formica. He’s slow to react when Dean’s hand snaps out and snatches one of the photos and holds it out between them, his lips puckered.

“I can’t believe you took a photo of this!” He grouses before flicking his fingers and sending the photo curving through the air. Castiel snatches at it but misses. It’s the photo of the wendigo holding Dean up by his ankle. It’s a great shot, and Castiel can’t believe he got it.

“Don’t be a jerk, Dean,” Sam rouses enough to say. There is nothing but fatigue backing his words as he stifles a yawn behind his hand.

“You know you have a camera on your phone, right?” Dean goes on as Castiel scoops up the photo, adding it to a small stack, then slips them all into the inside pocket of his trench coat.

“I am aware.” He sniffs, rolling his shoulders back.

“Oh, you’re aware?” Dean says, shifting in his seat. “Hear that Sammy? He’s _aware_.”

The waitress drops off a carafe of coffee and three steaming cups. She pops her gum and tucks a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, hip jutting out as her gaze lazily sweeps over the three of them.

“What’ll it be?” She drones and Castiel can’t blame her. It’s creeping up on 3:30 am, and they look and smell like they’ve just spent the better part of the evening grave robbing or rolling around in a crematorium. That doesn’t stop Dean, though. A sly smirk slips into place, and he leans towards the woman.

“Julie” Dean rumbles, eyeing her name tag, and Castiel rolls his eyes. “How you doing?”

Julie pops her gum again, she smiles slow and languid and leans in towards Dean, her tongue pokes out and swipes over her top lip. Dean’s brows dip, and his lips quirk, to emulate–what Castiel assumes is supposed to be–a sensual look as his eyes hone in on Julie’s pink-tinted lips.

“Oh you know,” she starts, her voice syrupy sweet for the briefest moment before her brown eyes go hard and she whispers, “I’d be a hell of a lot better if I didn’t have a trio of homeless lookin’ bums sittin’ in my section. Now, you got the cash to order or am I going to have to get Cookie out here to escort y'all right on back into the night you crept outta?” She gestures over her slim shoulder to a beefy looking chef peering at them through the order window.

“Grilled chicken Caesar salad, dressing on the side.” Sam coughs, and Castiel is positive–judging by the pinched expression he’s wearing–that Sam is desperately trying not to laugh at his brother's expense.

“Cheeseburger deluxe, sweet potato fries.” Castiel orders, handing his menu to the woman.

“And for you suga’,” Julie asks, turning to Dean with a smile and batting her lashes at him.

“Bill’s bourbon burger, medium rare,” Dean grumbles, not meeting the waitress’ eye as he hands his menu over and reaches for his coffee.

“Comin’ right up.”

Dean grumbles, Sam pulls out his laptop with a heavy sigh, and Castiel fidgets. It’s something new, this restlessness in his limbs. His fingers slide along the edge of the table, pick at the stray threads of his shirt. He pours too much sugar in his coffee and follows it up with enough cream to turn it light brown. It’s so quiet in his mind now, with just his thoughts bouncing around in there, no more ‘ _angel radio_ ,’ no more constant buzzing. He takes the Polaroid camera from around his neck and sets it on the table, sliding it gently back and forth between his palms.

“You know you have a camera on your phone, right?” Dean says again, his brows arching as he lifts his coffee to his mouth.

“I–I know,” Castiel’s fingers slip off the handle of his coffee cup to trace the edge of the camera sitting innocently on the table. He knows this, of course he does, but there is just something about physically holding these photos, his memories, that means he’s still real. That he’s here, alive, making a difference, that he can still do good, still change the world, still help. They saved three people tonight; _he_ helped save three lives. Sure, it’s harder now than it was when he was an angel. Everything is harder now; he's distracted for different reasons, and he feels... he _feels_ so much now: fatigue and hunger, anger and _lust_.

The photos are proof of his life, of Castiel’s life. That when Jimmy’s soul left this body and ascended to heaven, when God rebuilt this form and put Castiel’s grace back inside of it, and then when it finally, finally burnt out and left him human, there will be proof of his life like there never was when he was an angel.

Lifting his gaze, he narrows his eyes at Dean, “I know, this is just… it’s better.” Cas says stiffly, unable to speak all the actual reasons he carries the little camera everywhere.

“It’s… better?” Dean parrots, his brows creeping up his forehead. “Better?”

“Yes. It’s… better.” Castiel finishes lamely, slouching in his seat under the weight of Dean’s gaze. He feels stupid. He feels that way a lot recently, and he hates it.

“What is the big deal, Dean?” Sam asks, pouring his second cup of coffee. He seems to have perked up a bit.

The busboy comes by and drops off their food. Dean squirts a massive pile of ketchup on his plate, his tongue poking out from between his teeth. He slams the plastic bottle back down, shoving a bundle of french fries into the mess and then into his mouth as he announces:

“It’s annoying!” He gestures flippantly at the little camera. Castiel snatches it, pulling the small device against his chest protecting his treasure. He knows Dean wouldn’t smash it, but he can’t help how territorial he feels about it, how important it’s become to him in such a short amount of time.

“Dean…” Sam groans rolling his eyes. “Grow up.”

“You grow up!”

“Dean.”

“Samantha!”

Castiel lifts the camera and snaps a photo of the brothers arguing over their food. It’s times like these, as the camera whirrs and the image prints out into his waiting palm, that he’s thankful for the swap-meet, for this other Jimmy and his Polaroid. For all the little moments he’s been able to capture that make him feel like he matters, like his life matters.

* * *

 

Dean flinches as the flash goes off, _yet_ _again_. He drags his gaze from his brother’s annoyingly bitchy face, so ready to give Cas a tirade about taking photos of people who aren’t expecting it when it all dies in his mouth. Cas is staring quietly at the picture as it slowly develops. This private, shy sorta smile on his lips. And his eyes, his eyes look… _happy_. There is a softness around their edges, a relaxed contentment that Dean fiercely wants to protect. Cas looks happy. Happy in a way that Dean hasn’t seen in a long, long time.

Dean lifts his burger instead, shoving it into his mouth and taking a bite that’s honestly far too large. He’s too stubborn to choke, though. His eyes water and he refuses to look at his brother who, of course, has seen Dean’s entire revelation involving Cas and the stupid camera and is now making his very patented ‘ _I’m so smug I look constipated_ ’ face.

As Cas’ fingers gently trace the image that’s appeared and he carefully slips the new photo into his coat pocket with the others, Dean decides that the camera might not be such a bad thing after all.

 

* * *

* * *

 

Things get strange after the diner. Not immediately after, but there is a noticeable change. Dean complains less about the camera. He doesn’t even gripe at Castiel when he takes his time organizing each day’s photos. Taking them in and out of the small photo album that came in Other Jimmy’s little carry case. It only has a few blank pages left, meaning he’s going to need to find another one soon.  

They are on their way back to the bunker, passing a large field full of fluffy, wool-covered creatures that are decidedly _not_ sheep when it happens again. The decidedly different way Dean is treating Castiel’s obsession with the photographs.

“What are these animals?” Castiel asks, he’s having trouble remembering all the things he once knew, he tries not to let on, but it’s frustrating all the same. He presses his finger against the cool glass of the Impalas’ back window. Sam’s head swings around, and he makes a small noise in the back of his throat.

“Alpaca.”

“Alpaca?” Castiel repeats, and because its become habit, he lifts his camera to take a photo. It dawns on him that there is no way a photo of the giant, adorable, fluffy creature is going to be anything but a blur when the Impala slows down, and she’s pulling over. Her tires moan loudly as they pass over the rumble strip at the edge of the road.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks, shifting so he can lean into the front seat between the brothers. Dean’s hands grip the steering wheel, the muscles of his forearms bulging as his jaw tenses. When Castiel catches Sam’s eye, Sam shrugs a sly smile sliding over his lips as he turns back to the book he’s been translating for the last three hours.

“Dean.” Castiel isn’t sure what he intends to say after that, and instead just sits there floundering for something when Dean opens the driver side door and slides out. “Sam?” Castiel questions, but Sam just shrugs, _again_ , his mouth compressing in a way that makes Castiel think he’s trying not to laugh. Castiel turns slightly when the back door opens, and Dean drops his head into view.

“C’mon, Cas,” he says with a stiff wave. Cautiously, Castiel slides out of the back seat and follows him. Dean shoves his hands in his pocket and wanders for a bit, feet scuffing through the dirt as he approaches the wooden fence. Almost immediately two alpacas roam over to him, inspecting. One of the creatures leans forward and sniffs at Dean’s leather jacket. Instinctually, Castiel lifts his camera and snaps a photo, capturing the moment the alpaca’s twitching snout is just inches from Dean’s pinched face as he leans away from the animal.

As the photo prints, Dean spins on his heel and heads back to the car, patting Cas roughly on his shoulder. “Figured you’d want a picture since that’s something you do now,” he says as he passes, a soft flush riding high on his cheekbones.

Castiel doesn’t even bother hiding his smile as he slips into the back seat, the photo of Dean and the alpaca clutched between his fingers.

* * *

 

It happens again at the giant ball of twine just off highway 24 in Cawker City, Kansas. They are almost back to the bunker when Dean makes what is unquestionably a detour to a tourist trap, driving easily fifteen minutes out of their way, and attempting to explain it off as a bathroom break. Sam ends up teaching Castiel about perspectives so that it looks like he’s holding the ball of twine on his back, even though that would be impossible, as it weighs over nine tons. Dean, on the other hand, is in the background arms crossed rolling his eyes. The photo comes out great; it really does look like Sam’s got the giant ball of twine on his back. Sadly, when a call comes in about a banshee in Utah, they hit the road, headed in the other direction.

* * *

 

They’re somewhere in Nebraska when Dean hits the gas, jumps the small divider on the interstate and–tires squealing–takes the exit on the opposite ramp. His grinning as Sam flails in the front seat and Castiel slides fully across the back.

“What the hell, man?” Sam grunts as he straightens his laptop so it rests on his knees again.

“Dude, Carhenge!” Dean winks.

They end up spending forty-five minutes at the tourist trap. Dean enthusiastically poses them all in front of the old cars stacked up to emulate the Wiltshire, England original of Stonehenge. By the time they pile back into the Impala, Castiel has to put new film in the camera.

* * *

 

Ganking the coven of witches upsetting the suburban town of Paradise Valley, Arizona takes longer than any of them want to admit. It certainly doesn’t help that somewhere around their third day in town Dean falls victim to a love spell and ends up working against them for the majority of the two weeks they are there. In the end, though, it’s done. The little idyllic town set back to rights and the boys take their victory beers at the local dive bar before returning to the motel and getting ready to move on. Maybe this time they’ll head home.

Castiel is absently looking through the photographs he’s taken over the past few months. He’s almost out of film now, and it seems like a silly thing to bring up–film. Not when they have witches and vampires to face, bullets and relics to buy. Film is a luxury. He runs his fingers over his last two unopened packs, his heart sinking.

“Cas,” Dean calls, slipping on his leather jacket and flipping his keys around his finger. “Come on.”

Dean’s out the door before Castiel even stands up, looking to Sam with eyebrows raised in question, but as usual the younger Winchester just shrugs, tilting his head towards the door. Frowning, Castiel slips on his trenchcoat and shuffles after Dean, pausing when Sam clears his throat and points, more with his eyebrows then anything else, at the Polaroid camera left sitting on his bed.

“Do you have something you’d like to tell me?” Castiel asks, brows dipping as he snatches the little device up.

“Nope,” Sam says, turning back to the book he’s scribbling in the margins of.

“Fine,” Castiel grumbles, stomping out of the room and slamming the hotel door behind him.

He hates feeling like he’s missing something. The big picture. The more human he becomes, the more the pathetic remnants of his grace slip away, the more he realizes just how much went on under his nose as an angel. Just how far off base he used to be. Humans are complicated, frustrating, always hungry, or horny, or tired, so tired, _all_ the time. Castiel stomps down the steps of the motel, his thoughts swirling darker and darker, until they stop altogether, halted by the sight of Dean. He’s leaning back against the hood of the Impala, one hand shoved into his jacket pocket, booted feet crossed at the ankles, biting his bottom lip like he does when he’s lost in thought. He’s focused on his cellphone, the muted blue-green glow casting his face into relief.

Humans are also beautiful.

“There you are,” Dean gives him a little smile as he lifts off the hood and skirts around the car. “Get in,” he says, pointing over to the passenger side.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks, hands flopping at his sides.

“Ju–just get in.” Dean frowns and disappears into the driver’s seat.

Grunting low in his throat, Castiel stomps over and drops into the passenger seat, slamming the door after himself.

“Hey! Easy!” Dean complains as he throws the car in reverse and backs out of the parking lot.

“Can you just tell me what’s going on?” Castiel sighs. He’s so tired. It’s late, his ears are still ringing from the showdown with the witches, he just wants to take a shower and go to bed.

“Just– “ Dean’s lips pinch together. “Just shut up and let me do this,” he bites out like he’d rather not have said anything in the first place.

“Fine,” Castiel grouses, slumping back in the seat.

“Fine,” Dean grunts, flipping on the radio.

The Impala purrs, the rhythmic, _whump whump, whump whump_ , of her tires humming over the highway combine to lull Castiel to sleep. He has no idea how long they drive, but it’s not until Dean’s warm palm cups his shoulder that he jerks awake and takes stock of where they ended up.

“Where?” Castiel starts, but the visage spreading out before him is just too beautiful. Dean pops open his door and slides out, Castiel scrambles after him, and they both lean back against the warm hood of the Impala.

In front of them, they cityscape of midtown Phoenix stretches out like a thousand sparkling gems. It glows against the backdrop of the mountains, a section of stars ripped from the heavens and scattered in reds and yellows, blues and whites across the desert landscape. From here, standing at the edge of the cliffs looking out over all that humans have done, have made, Castiel feels small. Next to him Dean shifts, the Impala dipping as he scoots up onto her hood.

“Just thought… maybe you’d like a photo.” Dean says softly, his forearms resting against his knees, hands dangling between them.

“I do. I mean, I would love one but…”

“Ok so.” Dean gestures to the cityscape before leaning back against the hood tucking his hands behind his head, resolutely staring up at the night sky.

Castiel wants to explain that there is no way his camera can capture the visage stretched out before them. That the old device just doesn't have the capability to manage more than a few of the brightest lights from the city below. He gapes, mouth opening and closing, turning from Dean to the city and back again, the faint blush of Dean’s cheeks darkens the longer it takes for Castiel to take a photo.

So Castiel lifts the camera, instead of pointing it out at the city he directs it at Dean stretched out over the hood of his car. The hem of his shirt rides up just a bit, showing the sharp angle of his hip bone and the top of his blue underpants, the band faded and frayed. Castiel snaps the photo, waiting as it prints. He slips it into his pocket before Dean can say anything and scoots up onto the hood, stretching out next to the hunter.

“So about the… the love spell.” Dean says shifting, restless.

“Don’t worry about it,” Castiel responds softly.

“I was… that wasn’t me, Cas. She… it’s not…”

“I know.” Cas glances over at Dean. “She used you, Dean. That wasn’t you, it was magic.”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

Dean sighs softly, relaxing back, the tension bleeding from his body as Castiel settles in next to him. His elbow gently rests against Castiel's shoulder, Castiel laces his fingers over his stomach, his arm nudging up against Dean’s ribs. They lay in companionable silence for a while, the night grows colder, the car beneath them cooling. At one point Dean moves, a flurry of limbs, dropping down and scooting around the car to turn on the radio. It’s barely above a whisper, but it’s something familiar in the background. When he slides back up the hood he’s closer now, so close Castiel can feel his body heat.

“Did you know…” Castiel begins, his voice rough and low “That here...” he lifts his hand and points up at the sky “right below and to the east of Orion is Sirius,” he traces the path with his finger and Dean moves his head to do the same, “which is the brightest star in the Northern Hemisphere.”

“Really?” Dean says, and his voice cracks before he clears his throat. Castiel looks over in time to see him lick his lips.

“Really.” He breathes before shifting on the hood, his body drawn to Dean’s as the warmth of the Impala fades beneath his back. “And here…. above Orion and nearly overhead is this V-shape, do you see it?  That’s Taurus, the Bull.”

“Taurus… like in astrology?” Dean interrupts, his voice quiet.

“Yes, Dean,” Castiel says fondly as their thighs bump and then press against one another. “Taurus features a bright red star named Aldebaran….”

They stay under the stars until Castiel starts to shiver, the tremble working its way into his voice as he explains just precisely who the great hunter Orion is and why he's so important when Dean sits up. He’s still for a moment, spine stiff he glances back at Castiel, his tongue swipes over his lips.

“Let’s head back,” he says, eyes flicking quickly to meet Castiel’s before dropping. “It’s… late… and we’ve got a long drive back tomorrow.”

“Are we heading back to Lebanon?”

“Yeah,” Dean says softly, patting Castiel on the back. “Let’s go home.”

Castiel smiles as Dean slips from the hood. They ride back in silence, making only one stop on the way to the motel; a twenty-four-hour drive-through donut shop. Dean orders as Castiel tries to warm his chilled fingers by the vents.

“We’re only here ‘cause I have got to try the apple pie donut. And you know Sam would throw a bitch fit if he knew.”

“Of course, Dean.” Castiel agrees with a small smile as Dean hands him a paper cup.

He’s sure it’s coffee, with the heat of the liquid leaching out into his frozen fingers. Castiel carefully takes his first sip. When the warm molten chocolate fills his mouth and burns his tongue, he moans. The crinkling of the takeout bag stops for a heartbeat. Dean shifts in his seat, licking his lips, eyes narrowed slightly on the road in front of them. Dean forces a deep sigh out of his nose, stepping on the gas and pulling away from the order window as Castiel takes another sip, feeling warmth rush through his body for an entirely different reason altogether.

* * *

 

* * *

 

They don’t head home. They get waylaid in Amarillo, Texas.

 

“Shit, shit. Sam come _on_ , man.”

“Dean, it’s going to be ok. You need to calm down!”

“I’m calm. I’m fucking calm, Sam. You’re ok, Cas. You’re gonna be ok. Fucking _Hell_. Sam, pick up your damn feet!”

Castiel isn’t exactly sure whats going on just that he’s in pain and there is _a lot_ of shouting. His body is lurching back and forth, and he feels heavy, weighed down like there's a boulder sitting on his chest. He’s cold. He feels so cold. More cold then he usually feels.

“C–cold.”

“I know, buddy. I know, hang on. We're almost there.” Dean’s voice is tense. “Put some towels down, Sam.”

“You got him?”

“Yeah, go. Hurry. He’s losing too much.”

Hands are gripping Castiel painfully under his armpits, and someone is groaning, long and low. It might be him, judging by the ache in his throat and the anguish that’s clouding his vision, it’s him.

“Yeah, yeah ok. Ok on three.”

“One”

“Two”

He’s sure it’s him now; the screaming. His voice cracks and his throat spasms as he cries out. Pain lances sharp and hot across his ribs and down through his right hip, searing in his thigh. It forces his eyes open, wide and unseeing. He’s being ripped in half, Castiel’s positive of it; this is what it feels like to be torn in two. He can’t breathe, he chokes on air, chokes on something metallic and hot in his throat. Someone is turning his head as he coughs hot coppery liquid passed his lips.

“I know. I know, Cas. Dammit, hold on.”

He clenches his teeth as the room spins around him. Groaning and blinking, he sucks in musty air, trying to remember what happened.

“Did… did we get it?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Dean’s voice is calmer now, strained, but calm. A cool cloth gently presses against his chin and lips. “We got it, you did great. Ok. Real great.”

“Here’s the first aid kit, Dean.” Sam’s voice says from someplace far, far away.

“Thanks, Sam. Help me get his shirt off.”

“Bite on this Cas.” Sam’s voice is forced calm as he shoves a bit of what tastes like old leather between Castiel’s teeth. Together they peel his shirt–so soaking wet that it clings to him–from his body and he screams, teeth sinking into the leather between his teeth. He gasps for air, saliva and blood spitting out past his lips, eyes rolling, he arches his back in an uncontrolled spasm, groaning.

“Don’t move, Cas. Come on, man.”

Castiel hisses, moving his eyes wildly until they land on Dean, locking the hunter in his stare. The man huffs a small laugh, his lips quirking, the deep lines around his eyes smooth out as Castiel maintains eye contact with him. Some of the worry… fear, maybe… seems to leave Dean’s expression. “It’s not going to get any better for a bit, I can tell you that much.”

“Here.” Sam shoves a half-empty bottle of bourbon into his hand and pulls the belt, yes it’s a belt, from between Castiel's teeth. “Take a few healthy swings of that then we’ll get started.”

Castiel lifts the bottle, eyes dropping to the giant gash running from just below his right nipple over his ribs and ending on an up-curl by his belly button. His chest rises and falls rapidly with each labored breath.

“Fuck.” He breathes after his first swig, eyes wide. There’s blood, so much blood, it oozes, leaks from his body, down his ribs staining his pants, the towels under his back and hips. Castiel yanks his eyes away. He feels crazy, scared, and searches wildly around the room for anything other than his mutilated torso, unfortunately settling on his shirt. It’s in shreds, half hanging out of the small garbage pail by the bathroom and it’s drenched in blood. _His_ blood.

“Yeah, fuck.” Dean sighs next to him. He’s got his own bottle of alcohol, of which he takes a quick swig before holding it out over Cas’ chest. There’s some gauze and a needle looped with fine white surgical thread spread out over the top of the medical bag. “You ready?”

“Hold on.” Castiel grunts, chugging the bourbon, gulping it down until his lungs sting, his eyes tear, and his throat burns like fire. “Ok,” he wheezes, “...gimme the belt.”

“That’s my boy.” Dean smiles, and Sam shoves the belt back between his teeth.

He passes out at some point. It’s a dark relief, the void that takes over his mind when the pain becomes too much. He’s lost to the darkness for some time, lost to the empty spaces of his mind. The constant threat of his injuries forces him deeper and deeper into the dark quiet of his subconscious.

Castiel assumes that it’s a human thing. How the mind reacts, to protect itself from trauma like this. He doesn't know how long he drifts but eventually, through the haze, he hears the brothers talking. Whispers of conversation, less than words, more the tone and tempo of their voices. It’s soothing, undercutting the throbbing pain radiating out from his side. He wants to see them, the stitches, so carefully done in Dean’s hand but he can’t lift his head and he can’t will his eyes open. He swallows roughly, his mouth dry, his tongue like sandpaper in his throat and drifts back under the current.

It’s the hum of the TV that pulls him towards reality again. A low burr of noise in the background. But it’s the familiar flash and whirr of his camera that has him slowly prying open his eyes.

“Wha–– Sam?” his voice is broken, scratchy like gravel underfoot. His throat stings like road rash.

“Yeah, Cas,” Sam whispers. “Shh, don’t try and move.”

The younger Winchester’s shadow passes in front of the TV as he steps around Castiel's bed. Gently, Sam sets three photos on the pillow next to his head. “I just thought you’d want these… for…” Sam shrugs, setting the camera down on the nightstand and yawning. “Blackmail, or posterity, or something.” He wanders off to the bathroom, closing the door behind him before turning on the light. The yellow glow that creeps out from under the door is oddly soothing. He’s not alone in the darkness anymore.

With shuddering limbs, Castiel picks up the photos. Groaning and twitching, he tries to sit up while not to jostling his wound too much. It’s a lost cause from the get-go, but he manages anyway, the pain in his side is duller now, more manageable. The first photo must have been taken just before Castiel passed out because he doesn’t remember it at all.

He’s red-faced, sweating eyes rolled up towards the ceiling, belt crushed between his teeth. Dean’s hunched at his side eyes focused, brows pinched as he carefully pulls the needle through Castiel’s skin. A large bottle of peroxide and a bundle of bloody gauze sits on the nightstand. There’s this look on Dean’s face–even though he’s only in profile–where Castiel feels like Dean’s grimacing right along with him. As if Castiel’s pain is Dean's pain, and the only reason he’s not losing it is because Castiel needs him to keep his head in the game. Frowning at the butterflies that try to take flight in his stomach, Castiel sets the photo aside, his thumb dragging over Dean’s face before he moves onto the next one.

This photo must have been taken later because the scene is much calmer. Dean’s slumped over the side of Castiel’s bed, eyes closed, lips parted. His head is pillowed on one folded arm, his other is stretched out, hand gripping Castiel’s palm at an odd angle, Castiel's thumb is poking out from the circle of Dean’s first like he wasn’t sure if he wanted to hold Castiel's wrist or hand and gave up halfway through. Castiel is deathly white compared to the blood smeared over his torso, the bed, Dean’s hands, and forearms. There’s a smudge of blood smeared across Dean’s brow like he couldn’t be convinced to leave Castiel’s side to clean up once his task was done. The gash on his body is bandaged, a thin line of red dots mark the clean white gauze taped to his side. There’s a slackness to Castiel’s face that says he’s sleeping.

It looks very domestic, for them anyway. A faithful partner sitting at the bedside of a lover. Castiel sets the photo aside, his heart rate elevated as he forces those errant thoughts back where they belong. Locked away where Dean can never find them. He doesn’t need that kind of emotional upheaval in his life, now or ever, not from Castiel, no matter his feelings. Setting aside the photo Castiel pursues the last, most recent image.

The photo is just developing, the motel room steadily growing crispier. It’s them right now. Cas is propped up on the pillows, leaning against the headboard, his head resting along his right shoulder, asleep. Already his color looks better; there’s more of a flush to his face. Now that he thinks about it, he feels better, the slight tingle under his skin around the wound tells him that whatever vestige of his grace that remains is working hard to speed up his healing. His eyes flick to Dean. In the photo and currently, he’s sprawled out in a chair next to Castiel’s bed. He’s hunched down, caved in on himself like the smallest amount pressure to his shoulders will have him sliding right out of the chair he’s in. There’s a book, spine up, pages parted over his thigh, long abandoned to the pull of sleep. Though the blood’s been scrubbed from his arm and face, it doesn’t appear to have been done very efficiently, and smears of it still remain, as if Dean had rushed through it.

Yes, Castiel thinks, running his fingers over the image Dean’s face, he’s very thankful to Sam for taking these photos. Even if the situation isn’t the best, they are still valuable memories. Ones he’ll relish. Signs that maybe Dean cares for him more than the hunter lets on. Castiel carefully stacks the photos, looking through them a few more times before sleep pulls at his eyes again and his body slips back under.

He wakes an indeterminate amount of time later to the camera going off again, immediately followed by the hushed sounds of a scuffle.

“Dea–”

“Serves you right, Sammy!”

“Ugh!”

“Fu– Dean…”

“Oh, no you don’t.”

“Just… you… _ugh_ … Come on giv– _umph_ ”

Cas sits up on the bed. The room is still dark, but in the curtains are blocking out the sun instead of the moon, kinda way. Everything is cast in dull sepia tones, everything except the brothers, who are awash in the yellow light pouring out from the bathroom. Dean’s got Sam in a one-armed headlock, the younger brother stretching his arm out to try and snatch a small slip of paper Dean is managing to keep just out of reach. The camera is sitting next to his thigh, and Castiel lifts it slowly.

“Fuck you, Dean!”

“You should have thought about that before you took creepy ass photos of me sleeping’.”

“It… it’s not like that…” Sam grunts, attempting to silently toss Dean off his shoulders. They both stumble backward before Dean throws his weight forward and brings Sam’s head tighter into the curve of his elbow.

“Tap out, Bitch.”

“Give me the photo, Jerk!” Sam whisper yells.

“What’s going on?” Castiel asks voice grating, rumbling in his chest. How much had he shouted his pain last night?

The brothers look up in tandem, Dean smiling like this was his plan all along and Sam rolling his eyes rather dramatically. Castiel snaps a photo. They separate, Sam grumbling as he lurches back into the bathroom while Dean swaggers, triumphant over towards the bed.

“How ya’ feelin’ Cas?” He asks as he settles down on the edge next to Castiel’s hip. He’s flipping a photo between his fingers.

“Much better. Thank you, Dean.” Castiel smiles softly, Dean’s warmth is leaching into his thigh as the hunter shifts a little closer.

“Good, good. Little touch and go there for a while.”

“I’m sorry to have worried you.”

“It’s fine Cas, buddy,” Dean says one of his hands falling to pat along Castiel’s thigh. “We all forgot Chimeras have a freakin’ snake for a tail.”

Dean’s fingers tense, gripping the muscle of Castiel’s upper thigh and its soothing. It’s reassuring, too comforting. It feels familiar and good, so good. A flush of arousal takes over Castiel’s body, boiling low in his gut, spreading out over his hips and up his back. It takes him a moment to recognize the feeling as the slow build of anticipation he gets right before he masturbates. Castiel licks his lips, digging frantically for a topic change before his thoughts get out of hand.

“What were you fighting about?”

“Ah,” Dean’s smile turns devious and playful, and it doesn’t help the heat creeping through Castiel’s body at all. Normally he’s much better at controlling his reactions to Dean. He’s been aware of his less than platonic feelings towards the hunter for quite some time now, but, he assumes with resignation, that this very near death experience has thrown him into some kind of overdrive. “This,” Dean says holding out the photo, and he’s all smirking confidence, and clever bright eyes and Castiel feels his heart skipping in his chest as he slowly reaches out and retrieves the image.

He’s thankful for an excuse to look away from Dean as the man says:

“It’s payback for the photos he took of me when you were sleeping…” and he rubs the back of his neck looking down shyly, a slight tint to his cheeks like he’s embarrassed.

“I like those photos,” Castiel says a bit defensively, looking around for them.

“Yeah, I figured you did. Anyway, I didn’t destroy them, if that’s what you’re thinking so don’t worry.”

“I didn’t think you wou– HA!” Castiel barks out a laugh when he finally realizes what he’s looking at.

“Yeah... finally caught his hair care routine on film,” Dean says leaning in to look at the photo with Castiel, his face tilted in a broken grin and Castiel can _feel_ him over the scant inches that separate their cheek. He wonders what it would be like to feel more than just the phantom press of Dean’s stubble along his own, to know instead of imagining the drag of his skin, the calluses of Dean’s hands as they stroke over Castiel’s chest, down his arms.

Castiel shivers, thankful for the thick duvet over his lap as his cock decides now is the perfect time to chub up.

Dragging his eyes from Dean’s profile, Castiel takes in the picture. Sam’s hunched down to get his entire face in the bathroom mirror, his expression focused. He’s wearing a thick sweatband around his forehead to keep his hair out of his face, and he’s got what looks like a small paintbrush in his hands. Most of his hair is goopy with some kind of white cream, the same white cream that’s on the paintbrush and in a small tub on the counter.

“So I’m guessing that’s not actually hand cream?” Castiel asks pointing at the container in the photo.

“NO!” Dean snorts “It’s some fancy ass conditioner… er…. treatment…. thing!”

They laugh, and it hurts to laugh, but Castiel does it anyway. He can see Dean standing in the background of the photo, reflection blurry in the mirror, the camera lifted to his face as he snaps the photo of Sam.

“Look at all the hairbrushes he has!” Dean snorts dropping his forehead onto Castiel’s shoulder. He can’t help it when his entire body seizes in surprise and he hisses at the spike of pain that travels through his ribs.

“Shit!” Dean jerks back and Castiel immediately mourns the loss of his easy affection. The feel of Dean’s feather-soft hair against the shell of his ear. The warmth.

“I– I didn’t realize he had so many… combs.” Castiel tries and fails to bring them back into the moment.

“Yeah, man. Me either,” Dean says, he’s slipping off the edge of the bed, standing, taking a few steps away, widening the void, the distance Castiel’s surprise had cut between them. His shoulders hunch and he shuffles to the other bed, pulling some items out of his duffle bag. “What does he even need all those things for,” Dean says flippantly.

“Maybe if you cared about your hair you’d know,” Sam sniffs as he exits the bathroom “Shower’s free.”

“I care about my hair!” Dean says, self consciously running his fingers through his locks before realizing what he’s doing and snatching his hand away. “I care. I’m just not a girl about it.”

“Really, Dean…” Sam snarks as Dean brushes past him and into the bathroom.

“Really, Sam,” Dean confirms.

“How are you feeling Cas?” Sam sighs as the bathroom door shuts behind him. “Thirsty?”

“Parched.” Castiel grunts, pushing himself into a more comfortable position against the headboard as Sam hands him a glass of water. They sit for a moment, Castiel draining the glass quickly and gasping as he sets it aside. _Right_ , he has to actually breathe now.

“We’re going back to the Bunker. For real this time,” Sam says slowly. “You need time to recover…” Castiel opens his mouth to disagree when Sam plows on. “We’ve been pushing you too hard like you’ve been doing this with us your whole life. But you haven’t, you haven’t even been human for all that long..." Sam grimaces and shakes his head. “Anyway, we’re going back to Lebanon. It’s not just you, Cas. We could all use a break.”

Sam gets up and retrieves the first aid kit. He pulls out gauze and some medical tape. “Let me check your wound. We’ll be leaving in a few hours but if your stitches are ok you’ll be able to shower before we hit the road.”

Suddenly Sam’s head snaps up, eyes wide and glazed like he’s lost in thought, the exact face he gets when two difficult research puzzle pieces have finally fit together, and he can see the whole picture. His lips curl, and he snatches the camera off the bed. “Hold on.”

He sneaks over towards the bathroom door, waiting, shoulders hunched, biting his bottom lip. The moment the water shuts off and the rustle of the shower curtain being pulled back is heard he bursts into the room shouting “ _SMILE_!” and snaps a photo. He’s backing out and slamming the door closed so quickly that all Castiel hears is Dean giving a very indignant squawk. He seems to recover quickly though as he starts shouting.

“FUCK, SAM! … _AHH_!”

There is a loud thump followed by the sound of wet skin smacking tile.

“You alive?” Sam chokes passed his laughter as he backs away from the door.

“FUCK YOU!” A quick scramble of limbs, another wet thump followed closely by some muffled cursing, and finally, Dean shouts, “You’re a dead man!”

Sam quickly drops the camera back on the bed next to Castiel’s hip before sprinting around and falling back into the chair next to his bed. Sam shoves the new photo under Castiel’s blankets and tries not to wince when he feels the plastic sticking to his sweaty thigh. Sam starts laying out the gauze and tape, his fingers working quickly, pausing only when another short shout erupts from the bathroom.

“Play along…” Sam whispers as he lifts Castiel’s right arm up and pulls the blankets down low over his hips.

Dean comes charging out of the bathroom not a moment later, his jeans half up his thighs, his shirt stuck to his wet back as he tries to yank them both on at the same time. Sam very calmly does not look up, unlike Castiel whose eyes are drawn to Dean like a magnet. Sam tucks his chin towards his chest, shoulders held so stiffly it’s obvious he’s suppressing his laughter and peels the bandage off Castiel’s wound. Dean yanks his jeans the rest of the way up his thighs, buttoning them over his boxer-briefs before adjusting his shirt.

“Fuckin’ low man,” Dean snaps as he walks to his duffle and shoves his dirty clothes inside. Sam isn’t phased, leaning over Castiel’s side and carefully peeling away the bandage covering his skin.

“Huh…” Sam sits back crumpling up the gauze and tossing it to the trash bin. “Looks like you’ve got some mojo left after all, Cas.”

Everyone’s eyes turn to him, dropping to the silvery pink scar running up Castiel’s side. The stitches Dean spent so long doing last night are still there, but the skin under them is closed up, a healthy looking pink.

“You might not even scar at this rate,” Sam says with mild surprise, his eyebrows inching towards his hairline.

“Awesome,” Dean grunts out. “Shower’s free...” He throws a shirt at Castiel.

It’s not until hours later, with the Impala rumbling down the interstate, Sam’s fingers clacking away at his keyboard, and Dean singing along to the tape deck, that Castiel pulls out the photo Sam slipped him. He chokes on his tongue, eyes bugging out of his head at what he sees. Dean stops singing and narrows his gaze in the rearview mirror.

“You alright Cas?” he asks, suspicious.

“FINE!... Fine.” He clears his throat, trying to will the blush back down his neck. Sam snorts, and Castiel entirely loses the battle against his embarrassment.

He shifts in the seat pulling the photo back out again and staring down at the image of Dean half in–half out of the shower. So much golden freckled skin, splashed with water, glistening pectorals and abdominals. Dean’s eyes are wide, his hair is slicked back in the front but poking out at odd angles in the back like he’s just run his hands through it. He’s gripping the shower curtain with one hand, which is, fortunately, or… rather, unfortunately, clinging to his hips and upper thighs like it’s trying to pull him back into the tub.

Dean’s reaching out for the camera with the other hand, wet biceps bulging. His entire torso on display, a smattering of hair running from his belly button down to where the curtain bunches over his hips, fine little scars crisscross his upper arms and ribs. His tattoo stands out like a beacon, drawing Castiel's eyes back up to his well-formed pectorals and then his perky nipples and then down the valley of his abs and…. Castiel groans, flipping the photo against his stomach as heat rushes through his entire body.

Fucking _Sam_!

* * *

 

* * *

 

It’s nice being back in the Bunker, Dean decides as he slumps into the kitchen to pour himself a cup of coffee. Things are quiet for once; they need a rest. They _deserve_ a rest, especially Cas. They’ve been working him too hard. At least Dean had nine years of learning how to be a human before his dad shoved a shotgun in his hands. Cas has barely had nine months.

Leaning against the kitchen counter, Dean brings his coffee cup to his mouth. The liquid burns his tongue as he swallows, but he’s too distracted to really notice as he skims the National newspaper for anything suspicious. He can’t help it–the urge to look for that next case. It’s a habit Dean isn’t even trying to break. His head snaps up at the sound of the Polaroid.

“Cas…”

“Dean,” Cas says like it’s nothing new. He drops the camera, and it hangs limply against his chest from the stupid rainbow strap. He shuffles into the kitchen, pajama pants hanging low on his narrow hips, the stretched out collar of his secondhand T-shirt displaying the curve of skin where his neck meets his shoulder. It’s tantalizing, and Dean jolts when he realizes he’s staring. Cas is rubbing his eye with one of his palms as he yawns, his other hand hovering patiently at the front of the camera for the photo as it prints.

“That’s bullshit,” Dean says, putting down his cup and paper and grabbing the camera. He pulls Cas over to him by the strap around his neck, the former angel stumbling sluggishly.

“Hey!” Cas grates out, his voice a low but pleasing rumble that does not–by any means–send a shiver of pleasure over Dean’s scalp.

“Shut up.” Dean throws his arm around Cas’s neck and pulls him tight against his side, holding the camera out in front of them. “Say coffee,” Dean grins as he snaps the photo, and he knows for a fact that Cas is looking at him in confusion instead of the camera.

“Really? Selfies in the kitchen?” Sam yawns as he shuffles in, scratching at his abdomen.

Dean snatches the photo as he drops the camera back against Cas’ chest. “It’s not a selfie, it’s revenge,” he says, moving over to the fridge and pinning the photo up on it.

Sure enough, Cas is staring at Dean instead of the camera, his hair stuck out at crazy angles, and his brows dipped over his narrowed eyes. It’s adorable… Dean mentally curses himself, turning away from the image and stomping back to his coffee. _Adorable_ he thinks like the word shouldn’t perfectly describe morning Cas, but it does anyway.

“Revenge,” he repeats, pointing at Sam with his paper as he leaves the room.

* * *

 

There are certain sounds, Dean concludes as he shuffles into the library a few days later–his dead guy robe tickling his calves–that have become a constant in his life. The hum of Baby’s tires as she eats up the highway with some Zeppelin or Metallica pouring from her speakers. The myriad of noises Sam makes while he’s in the ‘zone’ with his research. The clang of pipes in The Bunker when someone’s in the shower or doing laundry. And more recently, the whirr and buzz of Cas’ camera.

So it comes as a shock to him when the camera suddenly vanishes. Cas is already in the library, a small laptop set in front of him, roughly one-finger-typing on the keyboard, his expression pinched in concentration.

“What’s up, Ansel Adams? Got tired of taking photos already?” Dean asks, dropping heavily into the chair across from Cas.

“Not in the least,” Cas replies stiffly, not looking up from the computer.

“We could head out and do some more tourist traps. I hear New Orleans is nice right around now.” Dean offers, and he’s not exactly sure why. “Lots of ghost tours too, though if any of them were real, we’d have taken care of them already. Still, could be fun? Plus beignets!”

“That won't be necessary.” Castiel sighs, slumping back in his chair and closing the laptop.

“I mean are you sure cause… _beignets_ , dude?” He offers again. Just picturing the fluffy, powdered sugar covered pastry makes his mouth water.

“I’m sure,” Cas repeats sounding more defeated by the minute.

“Uh, right. Well, if you change your mind.” Dean shrugs.

“There really wouldn’t be much of a point, as I won't be taking photos any longer.”

Dean’s brows lift as he meets Cas’ eye, holding his gaze until the former angel gives an exaggerated eye roll.

“I’m out of film, and I’ve been looking online for it, but you know I’m not good at that sort of thing. It looks like it's not in production anymore, so…” Cas gestures with his hands and lets his head fall back with a frustrated groan. “It’s not important anyway, it was fun while it lasted. I guess.”

“I’m sure we can get you more film if you want it, Cas. It’s no big deal.”

“No, Dean. We have better uses for our limited finances then encouraging this stupid hobby.” And with that Cas stands stomping out of the room.

Dean lurches forward, intending to drag Cas back and argue with him, but instead, he slumps into his chair with a heavy sigh, frowning. The tense line of Cas’ shoulders has returned, along with the stiff way he holds his body like he’s just not sure of himself anymore. Dean decides, right then, that he’s not going to let Cas give up on himself like this, especially if he’s found something that makes him feel like he fits in. Reaching across the table, Dean pulls Cas’ laptop towards him and picks up the search right where it’s been abandoned.

Cas wasn’t kidding when he said finding the film was going to be difficult, but if they can find a shapeshifter in the heart of downtown Detroit, Dean can find some unopened packages of film for Cas.

He stays up late, bidding on an eBay lot that promises three boxes of vintage, factory sealed, stored in a climate controlled, pet free environment, Polaroid brand film. When he wins, because he will win, the total haul will be eight packages with thirty photos in each pack, giving Cas another 240 photos to take. Dean smirks as he pushes his bid higher, that should hold Cas over for a few months. He waits and watches the clock run out on the auction.

It takes two weeks for the package to show up at the UPS facility three towns over. They never ship anything locally, always changing where the rare shipments they get are delivered. It’s all worth it in the end, Dean thinks, the warm curl of triumph expanding in his stomach as he puts the little box into the footwell of the passenger seat.    

“Cas?!” Dean calls, skipping down the front stairs of The Bunker, the small brown paper package held out before him. He chuckles to himself as he opens the box, self-satisfaction, and anticipation of seeing Cas’ smile, plus watching him do that squinty head tilt thing, has Dean striding quickly down the hall towards the angel’s room.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean calls through the door, rapping his knuckles against the wood. Cas has been isolating himself in his room lately, spending increasingly long stretches alone. Sam keeps calling it his “adjustment period” but Dean worries that it’s something more. He waits a few more minutes, just shuffling his feet, and when there is no response his hand falls to the knob, and he pushes inside.

The layout is pretty standard for rooms in the bunker; full sized bed, desk, dresser. Where Dean’s got weapons on his wall and Sam has books lining his shelves, Cas has photos. And not just a few. There are photos _everywhere_. Taped, pinned, and plastered over every inch of available wall. Dean drops the package on Cas’ bed before slowly wandering around the perimeter of the room. The photos neatly cover the largest expanse of wall, some in little thrifted and mismatched frames on Cas’ desk, a few on his nightstand.

Absently Dean picks up one of the small frames and freezes, it's the photo he’d pinned to the fridge. The one Dean had taken, his arm haphazardly thrown around Cas’s neck, both sleepy and rumpled. They look happy. His eyes widen as he placed the frame back down, focusing on the wall of photos in front of him. So many memories, and he looks… _happy_ in them all.

Is this what Cas sees when he sees Dean? Is this how he looks when Cas looks at him… Does he look _this_ happy? Does Cas make him happy? Of course, Cas makes him happy, fuck. Dean slowly sits down on the bed, and really examines every photo, every memory, until he can’t look away. It’s all there on the walls. Their life. He’s back on his feet fingers tracing the photos as he moves around the room again.

The time they took a case about a tilt-a-whirl being haunted, and Dean had to work the water gun game. Both Sam and Cas had come over and spent the race time shooting him instead of the open-mouthed target.  And there he is, soaked and laughing as Sam hands him a towel.

The time they were doing recon for a salt and burn by a playground in Calverton, and some kid threw up on Sam. Dean holding a hose and spraying his brother cause there’s no way he was letting Sam get back in his Baby dripping with vomit.

Photos of the day Sam convinced them to spend the hours at King’s Landing under the guise of research for a ‘person gone missing under suspicious circumstances’ case. When all he really wanted to do was ride their new roller coaster. And, right there, pinned to the wall, is the commemorative photo from first time Cas went on said roller coaster. Surrounding it are photos of the first time he had cotton candy. Dean winning a giant stuffed Scooby Doo at the water gun game. Sam and Cas in line for a ride, Dean and Cas in line for another.

There are several photos of Sam with what Castiel has labeled ‘street dogs.’

The entire time Dean looks, his smile widens and the tension in his chest releases, rapidly being replaced by something entirely different. By the time he’s made his way around the room, he feels dizzy. His head's spinning, he tries desperately to get a handle on his thoughts. Dean sinks down onto Cas’ bed, blinking at the little photo frame sitting on the nightstand. The two of them in the bunker kitchen.

Fuck!

 _Fuck_ …

He’s in love with Cas. Fuck, he’s _been_ in love with Cas for a long ass time.

He looks around the room again, this time noticing how many photos there are of just him. Just Dean doing mundane things: pumping gas, tying his boots, smirking around a burger, fixing his hair in the rearview mirror, researching with his feet kicked up on a table in the library. There are a bunch of him driving, taken from both the front and back seats. There’s the one of him standing by the stupid giant ball of twine. There are two, three times as many photos of him as there are of Sam. The walls are covered in images of him as if Cas loves him too. As if Cas loves him so much he’s tried to capture every moment of happiness Dean’s ever had. As if Cas is trying to hold onto every single smile Dean’s ever given him, like he needs it. Like he needs Dean, loves him as well. Has maybe loved Dean for longer than Dean can even begin to imagine.

It doesn’t terrify him like it should. He should be freaking out right now, thinking about how he’s going to ruin Cas’ life. How they’ve each made so many mistakes in the past and are sure to make twice as many in the future. But he can’t. He doesn't, because even as those thoughts try to rear up and smother the tiny warm flare of hope in Dean’s chest, one crystal-clear constant sweeps them all away.

Dean lets out a rough breath, warmth spreading through his body as he realizes that they always end up here. He and Cas. No matter what happens to them, in their lives, devastation, apocalypse, rogue deities, even death. Nothing has been able to keep them apart. Nothing. They always come back to one another.

It feels right, perfect, all of it. Like it was always meant to be this way, and they just had to get here. Right here, to this moment in time, where it all falls into place.

“Dean,” Cas pauses in his doorway, and Dean turns his head. It’s strange how Cas takes up all of Dean’s vision as if nothing else matters. The world around Cas blurs along its edges, leaving his face, his body in crisp, clear focus. His lips part and he looks around the room, embarrassed, a flush rising to color his cheeks. His eyes land on the bed and he clears his throat. “What… what is that?”

“Film,” Dean answers immediately, snatching an individual pack from the box and standing in one fluid motion.

“Why?” Cas asks, his head tilting and the familiar action sends a wave of fondness spreading through Dean. They are drifting towards one another, as they always do, trapped in one another's orbit, the space between them vanishing.

“Because... you deserve to be happy,” Dean says, unable to look away from Cas’ eyes. They way his pupils expand, black eating up blue the longer he stares.

“Dean…” Cas’s voice is tense, choked.

“No, Cas.” Dean cuts off whatever he was going to say. “You do.” He holds out the little, suddenly insignificant, package in the scant space left between their bodies and Cas slowly takes it.

“I don’t under–”

“Cas.” Dean shakes his head, a smile lifting the corner of his mouth, he cups Cas’ jaw angling the other man’s face. “You deserve to be happy.” He repeats, his voice thickening threatening to choke him as tries to say what he really needs to. He swallows, glancing at the walls covered in their photos, their memories, their life. Together. Family.

Cas tilts his head into the cradle of Dean’s palm ever so slightly, and Dean makes eye contact with him again. “You love me. I mean, you’re in love with me.”

Cas’ eyes go wide, and he tries to step back, already shaking his head no, but Dean curls his fingers, sliding his hand to curve around Cas’ neck, forcing him to stay, pulling him back in.

“Dean. I can explai–”

“I love you.”

The words leave his mouth like a bird taking flight. All at once he feels looser, lighter, free. So happy he wants to laugh, he can feel it building in his chest, the joy. Cas’ eyes fly open, large and round, and he blinks a few times, the edges going liquid.

“You… you do?” he whispers voice cracking, disbelief in every syllable.

Dean does laugh now, and it’s cathartic. Tension bleeds from his body, and he feels like he just finished running for his life, and maybe, maybe he has. Maybe he’s been running, sprinting, charging to this moment, right now, all his life and he’s finally arrived. He doesn’t have to run anymore.

“Yeah, I do,” he says softly, drawing in a slow, steadying breath. “I’m sorry it took me so long to realize what this was. I’m sorry I wasted so much time. I don’t want to waste any more time, Cas. Not another second.” He licks his lips, their eyes locked on one another and he whispers: “ _Tell me_.”

“I love you,” Cas responds without hesitation, and Dean relaxes like it’s everything he’s ever needed to hear to feel safe.

“Again.”

“I love you, Dean,” Cas says, and he’s leaning in, fingers knotting in the front of Deans shirt. “I love you, I always have. I always will.”

“I love you.” Dean chokes, voice broken, breath heavy in his mouth. “Again, Cas. Say it again.”

Cas clears his throat, bringing their foreheads together, his hand lifting to curve around Dean’s neck pulling them closer. “I love you, Dean Winchester,” he breathes as Dean surges, closing the last few inches between them and crashing their mouths together.

It takes a few painful seconds–teeth scraping, lips bruising, noses colliding–for them to find a rhythm, but once they do it’s magic. Cas opens to the swipe of Dean’s tongue, and he’s delving inside; possessive, demanding. Needing everything Cas will give him and so much more. And Cas. Cas gives him everything. He tilts his head, sucking air through his nose as he strokes along Dean’s invading tongue with his own. He moans long and low into Dean’s mouth, the film he’s holding clattering to the ground as he spears his fingers into Dean’s hair.

The sound of the camera going off startles them both.

“Awwwww…” Sam says sardonically, standing in the open doorway holding Cas’s camera. “I love you guys, too.”

“Sam.” Dean manages.

“Fuck you,” Cas says surprising everyone. “I’m not kissing you.” Sam bursts out laughing, tossing his head back, shoulders shaking.

“Sugar, don’t ever change.” Dean winks because everything is ok. Everything is going to be ok.

“It’s about fucking time,” Sam says when he’s able to draw breath. “I swear to god if I had to deal with either of you much longer I was going to scream.” He sighs fondly. “Now, I’m going to go put my headphones on and watch the new Marvel movie. Lots of explosions. Lots of fighting.” He holds little photo out for them to take, his brows raised in challenge.

Cas snatches it from Sam's fingers, pulling it to his chest.

“Uh, yeah… good, good idea.” Dean says as he slips his arm around Cas’ waist pulling them flush together. “Cas and I we have some…”

“I do _not_ care,” Sam shouts over his shoulder as he closes the door behind himself.

“How long do you think he was standing in the doorway?” Dean asks slipping his arm around Cas’ hip and pulling him in again.

“Long enough to pick up the camera, load a packet of film and take a photo without either of noticing,” Cas responds, his eyes narrowing, nose scrunching and Dean wants to kiss him.

So he does.

* * *

 

* * *

 

There are a lot more photos now. More than there were before, each one brighter and more joyful than the last. It’s a commentary on their lives, a timeline and the happiness they’ve found really shows now that they are living the lives they should have been all along. Love is a crazy thing.

There is one of them standing at the end of the pier in Coney Island–thanks to Sam who’d taken command of the camera for the day. Sam who stood behind them as the sun set, claiming to be documenting the wonder wheel–when Cas had leaned in and whispered: “Kiss me.” Their lips lightly pressed together as the sun sets behind them. Dean grumbled about the photo later, but only to keep up appearances, then he purchased a commemorative frame and set the picture next to the samurai swords in the library.

There’s the photo Charlie took on her cell phone and by some magic had it printed in the style of a Polaroid for them. It’s of the first time they really held hands in public, longer than just a nudge of their shoulders, or brush of fingers against one another, but actually, _holding hands._

They were at some kind of gathering in California. They hadn’t been there for the march, it just sorta sprung up around them, like a flash mob. Banners, and rainbows, and cheering, smiling people spilling out of buildings like a tidal wave. Posters spouting ‘ _Love Trumps Hate_ ’ and ‘ _Let Equality Bloom_ ’ and Dean’s personal favorite ‘ _Marriage Is About Hearts, Not Parts._ ’

Dean's sure Charlie knew about this little march all along, and that the haunted painting she’d dragged them all the way to the west coast for–the one that was most definitely murdering people, Dean–was just a creepy old painting that was definitely 'not murdering people, Charlie'. She shrugged, going up on her toes to tie a purple, blue, and pink scarf around Dean's neck, before unbuttoning her flannel displaying graphic tee with a fluffy cloud sporting a rainbow mohawk and throwing up metal fingers spouting ‘Rock the Rainbow’.

The way Cas had looked around, expression shocked for a moment before smiling his big gummy smile, the one that made Dean’s stomach clench in the best possible way. How his blue eyes had sparkled, and when he laughed, throwing his head back as someone walked passed and tossed rainbow confetti over them both. The little pieces getting stuck in his dark hair making him seem ethereal. For the briefest moment, Dean would swear Cas’ eyes had glowed like whatever scraps of his grace weren’t yet burned away flared to life with his joy.

And Dean had needed to touch him, because he could because it was ok now. Because he would never, ever, need to think up another excuse to touch Cas, ever again. He just could, so he did. Reaching out and slipping his fingers into the spaces between Cas’ like they were meant to fit there, perfectly. Because they do, fit there, that is. The same way Cas fits into all the little empty spaces inside of Dean. He'd lifted their joined hands and kissed Cas’ knuckles, and he didn’t let go.

Charlie says it’s the best photo she’s ever taken. She blew it up for them for Christmas, and it now hangs over Cas’... _their_ bed. Dean’s lips pressed to Cas’ knuckles, eyes locked on one another, rainbow confetti floating around their heads. Charlie says the way they look at each other in that photo is love incarnate, but Dean still wouldn’t let her submit it to the local paper.

And there are other photos. Photos Dean hadn’t even known about, kept in a little red album in Cas’ nightstand. Photos that Dean stumbles upon months after that day in Cas’ room where Dean finally realizes what Cas has known all along; that they are perfect for one another.

He’s dropping the fresh bottle of lube into the bedside drawer when he spots it. The album is small, the perfect size for a Polaroid and Dean wonders wildly if Cas had custom ordered it. A silly little rose is embossed into the fake leather cover the word _Forever_ printed in faded curving gold font below. He almost doesn't want to open it, but who’s he kidding, he totally wants to open it.

The first photo is from so long ago that the edges are crinkled, faded. It’s Dean, spread out on a motel bed on his belly in nothing but a shirt and boxer-briefs. The next one is the one Sam took of him getting out of the shower. The one after that is Dean standing next to the Impala his white t-shirt drenched, clinging to his skin, his head tilted towards the heavens as he rolls his eyes. Sam standing off to his left the hose hanging from his fingers after spraying Dean from head to toe. The thin black lines of his tattoo are just visible through his shirt, and it takes him a moment to figure out why Cas had saved this picture. But then he notices the flushed rose color of his hard nipples just as clearly as he sees his tattoo through the wet fabric.

“Oh my god.” Dean laughs, flipping the next page and seeing yet another photo of himself. This time asleep on a bed, a pair of red lace boy shorts hanging from one ankle, his shirt bunched up around his armpits, flushed soft cock resting on his hip. It was the first night Dean wore panties for Cas. He’d gone with something tame, something that he could play off if it hadn’t gone well, but it went very, _very_ well. Cas had given him the best blowjob of his life, and Dean had proceeded–judging by the photo–to promptly pass out afterward.

“This is a spank bank.” He laughs again as he turns the page. “Cas has an actual book of masturbation material.”

The next image makes him pause. He remembers the day clearly. They’d gone for a drive, ended up a state over at a little bed and breakfast, it was the first time they’d gone somewhere just because. Stayed someplace that was nice and spent time together just to be around one another. No case, no Sam, no end of the world looming over their heads. Only he and Cas and a cozy little in-room kitchenette that Dean made pancakes at in the morning while Cas went for a run. And Cas made pork chops at in the evening, and they both made pie, from scratch covering one another in flower and batter and filling before tumbling into the shower and languidly jerking one another off.

But that’s not what this photo is. This photo is of Dean, standing in the early morning sun, the rays creeping in through the little window in the kitchen. He’s pouring coffee into a mug, and he’s smiling. Dean knows he’s smiling even though his back is mostly to the camera. He knows he’s smiling because he’s wearing a brand new pair of pale pink panties with soft lace trim. The very first pair Cas had ever picked out for him, the first of many, Cas has gifted Dean with since then. It’s so domestic. A side of himself Dean never thought he would be accepted for, but Cas does. Of course, he does.

Cas accepts him, encourages him. Cas wants him to feel sexy, and strong, and masculine and pretty if that’s what Dean wants. And he respects Dean no matter how he goes about it. Though when he asked, Cas said in order of underwear preference he likes Dean in:

  1. Panties, 2. Nothing, 3. Boxer briefs, 4. Cas’ sweatpants with nothing on underneath.  Dean indulges him at every opportunity.



“What are you doing?” Cas’ voice causes Dean to snap the little book closed and shove it back in the drawer like he’s twelve again and he just found the hustler his dad kept at the bottom of the glovebox.

“Uh…” Dean decides just to go for it, “I found your Dean Winchester porn collection.” He says with a smirk leaning back, his hands spread out behind him on the bed. Cas closes their door and casually strolls over to him until he’s standing between Dean’s spread knees.

“Have you now?” Cas asks one of his brows arching in a way that sends shivers of anticipation coursing over Dean’s skin.

“Yeah.” Dean rasps as Cas’ eyes flick over to the drawer. Slowly he reaches out and pulls it open. Dean thinks he’s going to take out the photo album, but instead, he casually lifts their bottle of lube and sets it on the nightstand.

“I’ve been meaning to add some new content for a while now,” Cas says softly as he presses his knee up into the apex of Dean’s legs. The heat of his thigh nudges up under Dean’s balls as he leans forward, resting his palms on Dean’s shoulders and gently lowering him to the bed.

“Really?” Dean asks, hands coming up to cup Cas’ hips “Got anything particular in mind?”

Cas hums low his brows arching as he dips and nips at the underside of Dean’s jaw, lowering his hips until both of their bodies are pressed flush. Dean’s fingers tip up under the hem of Cas’ soft cotton shirt and rub languidly against the flesh there.

“Oh, I’ve got a few things I’d like to go over with you if you’re interested.” Dean shivers at the dark purr of Cas’ words.

“Oh hell, yeah.” He breathes gripping the other man and rolling until their positions are reversed.

Cas is a fantastic kisser, and Dean soon gives into his probing tongue and plush lips letting Cas take and take. Cas leads the kiss until it’s sloppy and filthy and Dean is humping into the juncture of Cas’ hip, moaning into Cas' mouth. Cas' hands are everywhere, warm and rough, pulling Dean’s clothes from his body and covering his exposed skin with scorching kisses.

He pulls back at some point and Dean has no idea how he got where he is, but he’s leaning back on the pillows, legs splayed wide and hand fisting his cock as he watches Cas finger himself open. Cas tilts his head back, and groans, the thick muscles of his throat strains as Cas swallows and Dean wants to bite it, suck on it until Cas quivers and trembles and begs for Dean’s dick.

Hips thrusting shallowly, Cas reaches for the nightstand. When he pulls the camera over to the edge of the bed, Dean can’t help but huff a laugh. “You’re serious?” He asks hips lifting as he fucks helplessly into his fist, the sight of Cas straddling his knees, cock hard, chest flushed and sweaty, is all too much.

“Deadly,” Cas responds as he drizzles a little more lube over Dean’s fist. “I’m ready,” and he’s moving, scooting up Dean’s thighs, spreading his legs to accommodate the width of Dean’s hips. “Let me.” Cas groans lowly, as he reaches behind himself and replaces Dean’s hand with his own.

“Oh, sweetheart.” Dean tosses his head back, unable to look away as Cas slowly drops his hips and sinks his tight, wet heat down onto Dean’s cock. “Yes fuck, Cas.” His hands scrabble down Cas’ ribs to slip over his hips, squeezing, holding steady until Cas drops his chin to his chest, lips parted as he lets out little gasps, circling his hips once, twice, and Dean’s gone, bucking up into Cas’ yielding body. Cas rolls his hips with each thrust, flexing his arms and bracing back on Dean’s knees as he leverages himself to press down harder, faster.

Sex with Cas is always amazing. From their first awkward stumblings to this moment right now, every instance Dean gets to touch Cas, to feel him, to listen to him pant and whine, the soft little exhales he does as he gets closer and closer to his orgasm. Dean treasures every moment.

When Cas grabs his dick, the flushed red head sliding in and out of his fist, Dean feels his balls tighten. The way Cas’s abdominals flex and roll, bunching under his tan skin. Dean hungrily followed the thick trail of hair that leads from his belly button to just above his cock with his eyes. He likes to trace the path with his thumbs when he sucks Cas’ cock.

“Feels good, Dean.” Cas moans and Dean seizes his hips, hands squeezing as he snaps up, his eyes wide, neck bowing.

“Fuck, Cas, I’m coming.” Dean gasps, chokes, “Cas…. _fuuuck_ . I’m coming. _Fuck_ , fuck, fuck.” He cries out his shoulder slamming down on the bed even as his back arches, his head smashing into the pillows, mouth parting on a silent whine. He knows he’s got Cas’s hips in a brutal grip, he can feel the muscles of his biceps straining with the effort. He has no control over the way his body goes electric with his orgasm as he unloads his release into Cas. It’s always like this with Cas. Dean’s orgasms are so intense, his body gives up everything for Cas, so much so that he would be embarrassed if it wasn’t so hot.

Dean doesn’t even register the sound of the camera. He barely feels the hot streaks of Cas’ come as it lands on his belly, over his pecs, hitting him in the chin. Cas is moaning, shifting his hips on Dean’s cock as he milks himself until there’s a puddle of come around Dean’s belly button. Cas flops forward, heedless of the mess, to press a searing kiss to Dean’s lips.

“Dean, fuck. Do you have any idea how sexy you are?” He pants, propping himself up on his elbows and looking down at Dean. “You don’t, do you? How could you, Dean...You are just…” Cas huffs, dropping down to kiss him again and Dean surges up meeting him. “I have proof now at least.” Cas sighs when they break apart. He has a flirty smile on his face as he shakes the little Polaroid next to Dean’s ear. “This might be my favorite photo so far.”

“It’s certainly the most obscene,” Dean admits, skin burning in embarrassment. It’s pornographic, is what it is, and not the softcore kind either. In the photo, Dean’s neck muscles are straining, his skin beet red as he tosses his head, his jaw a sharp angle as he shouts his pleasure. The photo is taken looking almost straight down, and Dean’s chest is covered in Cas’s come, his shoulders knotted, corded muscle bulging as he flexes, holding Cas–who’s out of frame–in place so he can come in him.

Dean looks away from the photo and up at Cas, who’s still sitting on his dick, his ass clenching and relaxing rhythmically, not giving Dean a moment's reprieve, his cock surrounded in the wet warm heat and refusing to soften. Cas’ eyes are glazed as he looks at the image, heavily hooded as he slowly rocks his hips. His hand drifts to his softening cock, and he squeezes the base, fingers stroking his balls where they rest against Dean’s lower abdomen. Cas shifts again, and Dean hisses as his body gears up, blood surging south, pleasure almost to the point of pain sparking along his cockhead as it rubs against Cas’ spongy softness.

“Baby…” Dean groans.

“Yes, oh Dean, more,” Cas pants out, his hips lifting and falling with renewed vigor. “more, love you,” he gasps, “so much...Fuck _me_.” Cas hiccups as his hips rock with desperation, “I love you.”

* * *

* * *

 

“This has got to be the first time we’ve willingly been inside a courthouse,” Dean mumbles as he shifts in his dress shoes. The place is packed, people, families, lovers, filling almost every seat, standing along the walls, buzzing with excitement.

“It will be fine,” Cas says as he slips his fingers alongside Dean’s, resting their hands together against Dean’s thigh. “Sam’s here.”

Dean looks over his shoulder, his brother shuffles into the room waving excitedly. He fights his way around the edge and takes a seat by the front, fiddling with the Polaroid hanging from his neck. Claire on his heels, taking a spot next to him

“Why’d he bring that thing,” Dean grumbles, his hand growing sweaty against Cas’.

“I asked him to because I thought it would be fitting to have a photo of this. Wait... Claire’s here?” Cas asks as his eyes settle on where Sam and Claire are. He shifts, sitting straighter in his chair his gaze fixed on the young girl, twirling her blonde hair around her finger.

“Yeah.” Dean smiles. “Surprise… I hope that’s ok?”

“Dean.” Cas chokes, his voice thick in his throat “It–it’s– Yes. Of course... She–she wanted to be here?”

Cas’ voice is tentative, shy. Claire’s acceptance of him as a human in her father's body was so important to him. Dean knows that if Cas could go back and bring Jimmy back for her, he would. They had spent a long time rebuilding the relationship with Claire, and it was good now; different but good. She’s always been important to Cas, but even more so now that he’s human and realizes how fleeting life is. How little time people actually have with one another.

“Yeah,” Dean says, smiling, lifting their joined fingers and kissing Cas’ knuckles as he’s apt to do now. “She told me it was about time I got my shit together.”

Cas huffs a laugh, his free hand rubbing at his eye as he slumps back into the chair. The waistcoat he’s wearing bunches over his hips, and Dean resists the urge to fix it for him.

“ _Dean!_ ” There’s a hushed whisper that has him turning in his chair.

“Holy shit, Jody!” he whispers back. Over Jody’s shoulder, Donna waves, giving a huge thumbs up. “What are you doing here?”

“We wouldn't miss this for the world, Dean.” Jody whispers and her face takes on that look. The one that feels like family. Motherly. It wakes up the warmth in his chest and makes his eyes sting.

“Claire told us.” Donna hums with a little exaggerated wink as both women find seats by Sam.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Dean rubs his forehead with his knuckles and Cas squeezes his hand. “Fuck, this is really happening.”

“We don’t have to do this, Dean, we can leave. Nothing would change.”

He knows it true. Knows he can walk right out of the courthouse and never look back and Cas would love him just the same. It’s that thought that calms the rolling wave of butterflies in his stomach.

“Nah,” he says, breathing out slowly, matching Cas’ sly smile and feeling himself relax. “Nah. Let’s do it.”

“James C. Novak and Michael D. Winchester?” The judge calls out, right on queue.

They use Jimmy’s ID and Dean’s middle name for the legal documents. Sam and Claire sign as their witnesses. Dean’s in a haze as papers are passed back and forth, the pen feeling strange in his hands as he signs and initializes. Before Dean realizes it, he and Cas are standing facing one another, Dean slipping off his mother's platinum wedding band and taking Cas’ hands in his. He’s saying “I do, forever,” and he means it to his core as he slips the ring on to Cas’ finger. Cas blinks rapidly, a small, shy smile on his lips as he takes a shuddering breath.

Cas reaches his hand into the pocket of his waistcoat and produces a small black band. It’s swirled with sapphire and emerald and reminds Dean of galaxies and stars and the endless plane of infinity. Cas squeezes his fingers, bringing Dean’s gaze back to him. “I do, always,” he says softly, slipping the ring onto Dean’s finger and leaning in to kiss him.

Sam whoops somewhere in the background, and Claire tells them to get a room, Jody is crying softly on Donna’s shoulder and the sound of the camera going off, it’s familiar gentle whrr and groan, makes Dean smile.

“Come on,” Charlie calls from the back of the room. Dean has no idea when she got here, but he’s glad she is, that his whole family is here. “Garth’s at the bar already. We got some celebrating to do!”

The judge laughs softly and announces, “May I present to you Mr. and Mr. Winchester-Novak.”

“Damn right you do,” Dean says, totally overwhelmed by the support and love. The happiness that he’s finally allowed himself to have. He pulls Cas back into his arms, wrapping them tight around his slim hips and Dean kisses him senseless.

The photos sit in a tri-frame in the den. Thanks to Sam’s quick fingers, they have one of Dean putting his ring on Cas, one of Cas putting his ring on Dean, and one of them kissing, eyes closed, arms wrapped tightly around one another, surrounded by their friends, their family.

* * *

 

 

 

It’s six months later when the camera goes off again. This time capturing Sam crashing headlong into a beautiful, feisty, brunette who just happens to be chasing the same banshee they are, through the halls of the Oak Park retirement center. Eighteen months later, there’s another tri-frame sitting next to Dean and Cas’s in the den. The top two photos are a very casual courthouse ceremony, rings exchanged, Sam crying, Eileen smiling fondly up at him, but the bottom one. The bottom one’s recently been replaced with a sonogram.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, alright, there we go! I hope you enjoyed it. This was my first time doing the ReverseBang and while the selection process was _stressful_ writing for Crypto was really wonderful. I'm available on [Tumblr](https://hartlessfiction.tumblr.com) please come say hi. You can also find me on the [ProfoundBond Discord Server.](https://discord.gg/yFUrjcp) Stop by and join the family.
> 
> Comments and Kudos activate my praise kink.


End file.
